


I'll crawl home to her

by brownest_goldfish_intheair



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, More angst, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24795694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brownest_goldfish_intheair/pseuds/brownest_goldfish_intheair
Summary: "And yet he couldn’t help himself: however he twisted and turned it, however hard he tried to remind himself that the comfort of those pale-blue eyes was the last thing he should allow himself to crave, it didn’t stand a chance against the raw desire to be close to him, all his ways always leading back to Martín."
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 12
Kudos: 83





	I'll crawl home to her

When Andrés entered the monastery that evening, he felt betrayed.

He felt betrayed by his body and betrayed by his genes. He felt betrayed by his mother, who had not considered she could be dooming him simply by letting him exist. And mostly, he felt betrayed by his stupid need for control, giving him this ugly, false sense of security that made the feeling of defencelessness crash down on him all the harder now.

His chest was heavy with shame; with the knowledge that he was bringing destruction and pain into the rooms he’d held Martín close in; promised him that he would never let anyone hurt him again; into the place where he’d created a bubble of safety and bliss with himself as the centre-piece – a construction built to fall apart.  
Every step he took down the corridor felt like a step closer to the inevitable realisation that he had been living a lie, believing, naïve and blindly optimistic as he was, that the beauty of what he and Martín had would prevent tragedy from ever touching it.

And yet he couldn’t help himself: however he twisted and turned it, however hard he tried to remind himself that the comfort of those pale-blue eyes was the last thing he should allow himself to crave, it didn’t stand a chance against the raw desire to be close to him, all his ways always leading back to Martín.

“Hey, how did it go?” Martín’s smile was like a gentle breeze, cooling his skin in the sticky summer air.  
“Nothing to worry about.” On his way home, Andrés could not have imagined that he would be able to lie like that, not with how shaky his hands, his voice, his legs were, but the pure trust, the soft devotion with which Martín looked up at him, filled him with the strength to walk through fire.  
“Come on then, let’s have a glass of wine.”

Martín’s movements were calm as he set up the fireplace and poured red wine into two glasses. Andrés was sure he knew something was wrong; he _must_ know. But he was way too patient with him – he would never ask anything of Andrés, even when he clearly deserved it.  
 _It wasn’t that nice of me Martín, you know? It was how you should have been treated all along; you don’t owe me anything._ He could have told him a thousand times and Martín still wouldn’t have believed him.  
Andrés drank up his features as they sat in the half-dark, the faint sound of music brushing over his ears in the background, and he wondered if there really was no place in this world, for tenderness; for innocent love.

Right when the idea made his throat close up, Martín’s hand came up to cup his face, like reminding him to breathe.  
“You’re beautiful.” He whispered, running his thumb over his cheek.

Andrés had started calling Martín beautiful a few weeks after they met. Martín always looked away, not understanding how much it hurt Andrés because he was sure Martín had been called beautiful hundreds of times.

“Never.” He’d confessed hoarsely in the middle of a stormy November night.  
“Never?”  
“Once.” He averted his eyes and clenched his jaw. Andrés brushed a finger over the back of his hand.  
“He broke two of my rips, gave me a black eye and a split lip. Then he said it. And I never left him.”  
“Martín.” It took him all he had to keep his voice from shaking with anger; the last thing he wanted was to bring more violence into Martín’s life.  
“It’s okay, I was stupid."  
“Martín.” He carefully cupped his cheeks to make him look at him. Martín blinked back tears with a tired smile. “You’re beautiful.” He shook his head, his eyes still not quite meeting Andrés’.  
“You’re beautiful.” He repeated and Martín gave him a watery chuckle as his eyes slowly came to rest in his. “You’re beautiful.”

“Lo siento, Martín.” Andrés moved his hand to rest on top of Martín’s. With no amounts of words; no intensity of touch would he ever be able to convey how sorry he truly was. “Lo siento mucho.” He saw worry fill Martín’s eyes as he continued caressing his cheek, his lips opening and closing with questions, disappearing into silence when he saw the plea in Andrés’ eyes.  
“Ven aquí.” He said and Andrés hesitated for a moment, already feeling his shoulders give in because it was _Martín_ ; it was Martín and he needed him; wanted to spend all the time he had left with his arms wrapped around him.  
“No pasa nada.” His voice was like calm waves on an abandoned beach and Andrés let it wash over him; wishing he could drown in it.  
  
The sky was starting to turn back from black to fluorescent blue when Andrés crawled into Martín’s bed, his eyes stinging from all the failed attempts at sleep. Martín turned around before he opened his eyes, his hands searching for Andrés in the dark  
“Andrés.” He whispered, his voice laced with sleep and confusion. They’d slept in the same bed before, but it had never been Andrés who had needed Martín’s closeness to reassure him; it had always been the other way around.  
“Martín.” He pulled him closer by his waist, letting his fingers bathe in the heat of his skin that was steadily seeping through his shirt, breathing in the fresh smell of his shampoo as Martín’s head came to rest against his chest. “Go back to sleep.”  
“Qué pasa, Andrés?” Martín asked, his fingers caressing his back.  
“Nada.” The word came out way too late, way too choked and with way too shallow of a breath after it.  
“Andrés.” Martín repeated. “Tell me what I can do. How can I help you?” Andrés shook his head, all his dignity bitterly melting under Martín’s touch.  
“What can I do?” He asked again and Andrés could feel his lips tremble as he began to softly kiss his chest through his shirt. “Hm, tell me.” His voice was like the tight foam on milk, soft and light and warm and Andrés could do nothing but let out a shaky breath as his fingers wandered down his back and slipped under his shirt to trace his skin, the outline of his spine, the indentation of his lower back. He let them come to rest to press his leg right in between Andrés’, making him seal his lips to silence the moan that threatened to escape them, his hands instantly finding Martín’s shoulders in search of something to hold onto.  
Martín slowly moved down his chest, kissing every inch of his skin with a devotion sweet enough to make Andrés' eyes water as he tried to cling onto the moment with a pathetic grasp; when his lips met the bare skin right under his stomach, Andrés breath hitched low in his throat and he couldn’t quite tell if it was because it was the first; or because it was the last time.  
“Relax.” Martín whispered, his hands gently framing Andrés’ hips to make him turn onto his back. Andrés gave in like dough being poured into a cake form, every nerve in his body so hungry, so ready to _take_ because from the moment he’d left the doctor’s office it had been like someone had tied a metal string around his throat and Martín was the only one that could loosen it and _oh_ he would have loved to die a hero’s death, to slowly run out of air knowing Martín wouldn’t have to bleed with him, but he wasn’t brave; he was _frightened_ ; he wanted to cling onto Martín’s hand with all his might, not caring if he’d break his bones in the process. So he closed his eyes and gripped onto the bedsheets as Martín pulled down his pants, picturing the look on his face when he’d see how hard he’d made Andrés with just his featherlight caresses, hoping he’d be proud; that he’d know that no one else had ever made him feel like this.

All his thoughts disappeared in an instant when Martín’s lips wrapped around his cock; the warm wetness of his tongue cradling all his insecurities, putting them to sleep as his mouth slid all the way down before he sucked so hard, Andrés could only moan and tighten his grip on the sheets, desperately pressing his head back into the pillow. It took him a moment to register Martín’s hands on his hips, gently pushing him down to hold him in place while he made waves of pleasure rush over him with an easiness that bordered on the divine.

Andrés had never understood how people could kneel down in front of a priest to have their sins be forgiven; how the feeling of his hand on their forehead could make them sob with gratitude; not until he buried his fingers in Martín’s hair, tumbling right by the edge, unable to feel the mattress; comprehend the shape of the room; remember anything outside the space their bodies occupied, and Martín gave him exactly what he asked for, letting his hands slide off his hips right before he came, allowing him unravel under him while he drank up every last drop of his cum like it was ice-cold water after a walk in the desert. And when Andrés’ moans died down and he became aware of his own body again; the cool air drying the sweat on his forehead; the hot tears trickling down his cheeks, collecting at his chin and on his lips and making a salty taste fill his mouth, he knew it was salvation; it was salvation that made them cry like that.

Martín moved up to his face and wiped away his tears with his fingers, his touch as caring as a mother’s cold hand on her sick child’s forehead.  
“Shh, it’s okay.” He said when Andrés blinked up at him, tracing his lower lip with his thumb.  
“No.” Andrés’ voice was so quiet, he wasn’t sure he’d even said it out loud. “No, it’s not. Martín-”  
“Shh.” Martin shushed him with his thumb over his lips before lightly brushing against them with his own, instantly moving back again when Andrés didn’t react.  
Andrés regarded him for a second, tried to paint a picture of his face drenched in sunlight, where every vein, every dimple, every eyelash would be visible, listening to his heavy breathing like ancient poetry before he moved his hands up to the back of his neck to stroke the soft skin right where his hair faded out and tilted up his head to join their mouths, sinking back against the pillow when Martín gave in and made him taste himself as he kissed him with gushes of longing pouring out of him. And when he felt the rapid beating of Martín’s heart against his chest, heard him sigh as if he’d rescued him lost at sea, he knew that even if they kept kissing for the rest of their lives, it would never be enough. So he devoured Martín’s mouth, his tongue, his body, as if trying to take back what fate had so cruelly stolen from them; marking him to say goodbye so that when he’d leave in the morning, he'd know that the memory of his love was imprinted on Martín’s soul.  
Because that was the only heaven he’d ever get to touch.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading xx


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